


The Best Part of Waking Up

by AndThenHeGotKnockedUp



Series: Brightly ABO [2]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alpha Martin Whitly, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Christmas Eve, Christmas Morning, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Domestic, Dubious Consent, Father/Son Incest, Future Mpreg, Implied Mpreg, Incest, Inspired by Folgers "Home for the Holidays" Commercial, Internal Conflict, Knotting, M/M, Martin Whitly Loves Malcolm Bright, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Omega Malcolm Bright, On the Run, Parent/Child Incest, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28295496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndThenHeGotKnockedUp/pseuds/AndThenHeGotKnockedUp
Summary: Two years after Malcolm's heat at Claremont, he opens the door to a Christmas miracle (disaster).
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Series: Brightly ABO [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072535
Comments: 11
Kudos: 59





	The Best Part of Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

> I blame that goddamn sister/brother folgers commerical

When Malcolm wakes up, he keeps his eyes closed.

Because he’s not awake. Not fully. He knows this by now. These awful waking dreams have plagued him for over two years, teasing him with things he can never have. Things that, most of the time, he’s aware he shouldn’t even want. It’s only those days at Claremont in the throes of his heat that he lets himself imagine he’s not in a cage of his father’s making. He pretends he’s flush against his mate’s chest by choice rather than necessity, the bed being much too small for him to take his space. He imagines there are big, broad windows for the sun to peek through and rouse them from their leisurely lay-in. He sometimes imagines there are children sleeping down the hall.

He imagines he’s happy. 

His mind, however, likes to conjure up these things when he’s in his own bed, too. Some days he wakes up curled up against a pillow and thinks it’s his mate. He noses up against it, relaxes, and decides he might take a lazy morning. It’s not as if he has to be anywhere until early afternoon most days anyway. A familiar scent hangs in the air. 

As soon as clarity sharpens his thoughts, the illusion is ripped away from him. He’s not in bed with his mate. His mate is in Claremont, in his own cell cordoned off from the rest of the patients. The only thing he’s cuddled up to is the twisted mess of bedding and restraints he’s made over the course of the night, and that scent is nothing but a memory. On those days, Malcolm forces himself into a cold shower to blast away the remnants of longing and then goes straight into his workout routine. 

Something’s different. 

The pillow underneath his cheek shifts. 

A weight brushes across his back. 

Malcolm opens his eyes and holds his breath to find the familiar sight of what is unmistakably his mate’s chest. His _father’s_ chest. 

“I was wondering when you’d wake,” Martin murmurs, gently brushing Malcolm’s hair away from his face. “Good morning, my boy.”

Beyond the curl of his father’s alpha scent is the strong smell of wood burning. It’s accompanied by the crackling of fire, the heat of distant flames. 

And he remembers. 

###### Christmas Eve

He stops by his mother’s house first. She insists he and Ainsley have Christmas Eve dinner with her if they’re in the city, and his plans to leave were abruptly destroyed two years back. He can’t even claim a quiet night in with his mate. Though, if his mate were someone _normal_ , she’d surely insist he bring them with instead, and so he’d have no excuse regardless. It’s tradition after all. They’ll eat a lovely meal prepared by Luisa. His mother will interrogate Ainsley on her grades, any boyfriends, and holiday plans. 

(She’ll very pointedly not ask Malcolm how his mate is doing. Or whether or not they’ll be giving her grandchildren.

He doesn’t blame her. He’s not sure what he’d even say, if she did ask.)

Opening one gift each will come next. They’ll take a family picture, eat dessert, and then Malcolm will get a ride home to his cold, empty loft. He has his Sunshine, of course, and he’s grateful for that, but he always wants more during the holidays. If he’s lucky, Gil will be off duty, and he and Jackie will call to cheer him up before their visit the next day. 

This year, he’s not lucky. Gil is deep in a case, and Jackie’s mother is sick, all of her children huddled around her and fearing the worst. Not even his mother and sister can provide much relief from the loneliness on account of his mother’s slow rise back into society. Their quiet festivities were cut short so that she could attend the party of an old friend. Ainsley opted to go, and Malcolm did make an appearance, if only to give her something to brag about. 

Because, without law enforcement as an option, he’s somehow fallen into charity work. Quiet, busy work that helps people, though not in the way he’d like to. It’s given him a purpose in light of his current lot in life. 

Still, he wasn’t keen on staying long and made his polite goodbyes shortly after escorting her and Ainsley there. No one particularly minded. He has a reputation for being quiet at social functions, and, if anything, it’s only managed to give his mother an excuse to talk about how modest he can be. Then it was off to the loft. 

Malcolm hangs up his coat. He drapes his scarf around it. He toes off his shoes and checks on Sunshine. He drops down on the couch with two fingers of whiskey and a weight on his shoulders. 

There’s a knock at the door. It’s nothing urgent. Just a firm, steady knocking. 

Setting his tumbler down with a quiet sigh, Malcolm answers it, wondering if maybe Gil is popping by while on duty.

Martin grins at him from the doorway, eyes taking in all of Malcolm’s face, drifting down to the slight peek of a bond mark on his neck, hands tucked in the pockets of a borrowed coat. All of his clothes are unremarkable other than the fact that they can’t be his. His scent, on the other hand, is wholly his own. “Guess who’s home for Christmas? I'd apologize for not bringing any presents, but, well, tada!” He pulls his hands out and gestures at himself.

A not inconsiderable part of Malcolm is happy, but what’s not is more than horrified to make up for it. “No,” he says quickly. “You can’t be here.”

“Aw, what, a man can’t surprise his mate around the holidays?” Martin shakes his head. “I know it’s hard on you to go so long between visits, so I thought I’d pop by, maybe whisk you away on a little adventure like the ones you used to enjoy so much.”

Not that Malcolm should be surprised, but it really sinks in now. His father — his mate — is here to take him away. His first thought is for his mother and sister. The second is for Gil and Jackie. The third, and last, is for the handful of ballet classes he teaches and the students in them. They’re all scholarship kids, all from low income families or orphanages or bad situations, and they’ve kept him afloat for the last year and a half. Some days, those classes are the only reason he gets out of bed.

All in all, however… it’s not much. He feels horrible thinking that, but his instincts are crying out to go with his mate. He misses him. He _wants_ him. His visits have been pared down to almost nothing but heat stays nowadays, and it’s been slowly killing him to be so close and yet unable to be with him. Everything else in his life has been a bandaid on top of a gaping wound. 

Martin takes his indecision as permission to slip inside and tug him into an embrace, purposefully tucking his head right where the imprint of his teeth are. He knows it’s one of Malcolm’s weakest points. “Don’t worry. Dad’s here.”

Malcolm hates himself for leaning into him. “What do you need me to do?”

###### Christmas Morning

“Morning,” he says, the words feeling like ash in his mouth. He feels all too comfortable for where he is. He’s happily sore, warm from the covers and the contact, and the idea of breakfast is not nearly as enticing as the thick cock brushing up against his leg. He doesn’t want to move.

It’s wrong, all wrong. 

Martin kisses him leisurely, dragging it out to the point where Malcolm unconsciously follows him as he pulls away. “Not too sore, are you, my boy?,” he says teasingly. He squeezes Malcolm’s ass, meanders down to where he’s already getting wet again, and fits three fingers in his sloppy hole with ease. “You were so _tight_ around my cock last night.”

Malcolm shivers. He was. It was the first time they had sex outside of his heat visits, and no dildo has ever been able to measure up to his father since their bonding. “Are you going to fuck me or talk my ear off?”

“This morning isn’t about fucking,” Martin says, tsking at him. “Am I not allowed to make love to my mate?”

Instead of answering, wanting neither to lie nor bare even more of himself, Malcolm nips at his jaw, tracing the line of it down to where his scar covers his mother’s. His teeth still fit there perfectly. He bites down lightly as his father grips his hips and rolls them so that Malcolm is flat on his back in their nest. 

And it is a nest. He was so desperate to arrange it last night, so instinctually pleased to have a night with his mate in a bed that didn’t smell like a facility. Martin, of course, helped him saturated it with their scents by fucking him with all the energy they had left after the long drive. 

Now, his father takes things slow. He starts with languid kisses, his hands roaming and delivering teasing touches wherever he can reach. When Malcolm needs to catch his breath, he moves down to his neck to lavish his mark — the only mark Malcolm will ever have, if he has any say — with kisses and licks and delicate scrapes of his teeth. He sucks a bruise there, too, chuckling around a mouthful of skin as Malcolm shakes and pants at the sensations. 

“Please,” Malcolm gasps. He’s aching for a knot even without his heat. He needs to be filled and covered (and loved). 

“Patience,” Martin singsongs. Still, he shifts down Malcolm’s chest, tugging at his nipples and stroking his sides. When he reaches his groin, he hikes his legs over his shoulders and bypasses his cock in favor of his hole. 

Malcolm’s eyes squeeze shut as his mate laps at the slick already leaking out of him, at the seed he’s still leaking hours later. The tongue cleans him thoroughly before finally dipping into him. “Dad,” he moans. He doesn’t touch himself, because he knows his mate wouldn’t want him to, not yet. 

Martin slips a finger in beside his tongue and crooks it to coax more of his spend out. He does it again and again until Malcolm is squirming and begging to be filled once more. “Still tastes just as exquisite as I remember,” he says as he pulls away, sucking all of the slick off of his fingers one by one. He gently lays Malcolm’s legs down and kneels between them. His cock is flushed red, fully erect and curved towards his stomach. “Are you ready, my boy?”

Trying to catch his breath, Malcolm looks up at him and licks his lips. “Yeah. I need your cock. Need you to fill me up, Dad.” It’s the exact thing Martin wants to hear, and Malcolm allows himself a sly smile as the heat in his mate’s eyes intensifies. Yes, it’s wrong. They never should have bonded in the first place. 

It doesn’t mean that Malcolm doesn’t want this. _God_ , does he want this. 

“I’ve got you,” Martin says soothingly as he prods at his hole with the tip of his cock. “Daddy’s here.” He slides to the root in one steady thrust. 

Malcolm clenches down around him and sighs.

“Don’t worry,” his father continues. There’s a knowing edge to his voice. A false sympathy, too. “I know you miss them already.” He starts up a slow pace of in and out. “Your mother and sister, your kids at the ballet.” He pointedly does not mention Gil.

“I have you.” (Malcolm doesn’t think about what he’s given up for this. He can’t.)

Martin drapes himself over him and captures his lips for a long, loving kiss. “We’ll make our own family, you and I.” He ducks his head to nip at the indentation of his teeth. “You haven’t had your next birth control shot yet, have you?”

Malcolm shudders, whether in pleasure or shock or discomfort he’s not sure. “I haven’t,” he breathes out. His appointment was in a few days, in fact. That way it would be done and out of the way before his next heat. He kept pushing it off, knowing he didn’t really need it until his heat, and it’s not like it helped him in any other way. He won’t be making that appointment. “Oh, God.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Martin hums happily. He starts moving faster, his hips snapping every few thrusts. The swell of his knot is beginning to catch, just the smallest of hiccups. “If we’re lucky, we could even start today. A little ballerina or ballerino for you, my boy.”

“Fuck,” Malcolm says, sounding wholly wrecked. “I need — Dad, I—”

Martin wraps a wide hand around his neglected cock. “Of course.” His voice is sugary sweet. “Orgasms can help with conception, you know.”

Malcolm clutches at him, eyes shut, as he’s stroked and fucked. He tries to hold out for the knot. Tries so hard, but he can’t do it. The idea of rounding out with his mate’s kids is just too much. He cries out while his mate jacks him until it’s borderline painful, his semen dribbling down his father’s fist. 

Of course, Martin licks his own hand clean with a happy hum. Then he really picks up the pace. He takes his pleasure from Malcolm’s orgasm-pliant body. He fucks him so hard his cock squelches in the excess slick, loud and fast and _obscene_. 

He locks his knot in with one last, hard thrust. 

Malcolm lets him shift them so that he’s resting on his father’s chest once more. “Did you mean it?”

Martin tugs the blanket over them. “Of course, my boy. We’ll try until it sticks.” He chuckles then, fingers tracing where they’re connected. “It didn’t take too long with your mother.”

Eventually the knot goes down. After a quick wipe down, Martin gets out of bed completely nude and unashamed. His cock is flaccid, bobbing as he wanders off to the kitchen.

It’s not a long walk, as Malcolm discovered the night before. This cabin is small. Familiar in ways he doesn’t particularly want to think about, especially with the knowing looks he got every time he found his way without needing to ask. He knows they’re still in the state — for now. He imagines they won’t be for much longer. It’s likely his father had his escape planned for years, maybe even included Malcolm, too, though not necessarily as a mate. 

(Not at first.) 

Malcolm pulls himself out of bed and into the shower for a quick wash. He feels a pang of loss at washing away his mate’s spend, but he also knows Martin has plans today that don’t involve staying in bed. He dries himself off briskly, dresses. 

The smell of coffee is strong in the cabin. It’s the good shit, too, expensive and smooth.

Martin hands him a mug of coffee as soon as he joins him. He’s since pulled on a pair of sweatpants. “I’m afraid there’s not much to eat,” he says dryly, to which Malcolm ducks his head. 

They can’t go to a grocery store. It’s more than likely Martin’s face is pasted all over the news by now. Anyone who didn’t remember the horror that swept the nation twenty years prior would be on their toes now, and that meant they had to stick with what they could bring from Malcolm’s loft. 

“You know, for a ballerino, you should really be eating more.” His father steals a kiss to soften the admonishment. It’s sweet and warm like the coffee they both love. 

Malcolm wishes it was bitter. “I usually do,” he promises, and it’s the truth. Since taking up his position as dance instructor, he has made a concerted effort to eat more and better. He could justify it when it was for the sake of the kids. 

The holidays just take it out of him. His mental state always took a dive in the winter months, but it’s been especially bad since bonding. 

(His heart goes out to his mother, who’s managed twenty years of Christmases without her mate.)

Martin grins. “Good thing you’re under the care of a doctor now!” Although his words are light, there’s a finality there that makes Malcolm shiver. “We’ll have to make sure you’re getting all of the right nutrients. Going vegan has done wonders for my health. I bet you’d adjust well…”

Malcolm focuses on his coffee. He lets the warmth of it ground him. He’s not sure what his father has planned from here on out — besides children. Whatever it is, he probably won’t share with Malcolm until things are fully set in motion. And that’s what Malcolm chose when he agreed to go with his mate. He shuffles forward until he can rest against Martin’s front, putting his mug down on the counter. “Merry Christmas, Dad,” he murmurs. His nose brushes right where he knows his mark is.

“Merry Christmas, my boy,” Martin says joyfully, an arm wrapping around him to hold him closer. 

Jessica uses her copy of the key to let Gil and the other officers into the loft. 

Just as expected, it’s mostly empty. Malcolm isn’t there. The cupboards are cleaned of the little he kept in them. The fridge has a handful of things in it — specifically items that don’t travel well. His closets are picked bare, too. The only thing that is noticeably left behind is Sunshine. There’s a note taped to her cage, one addressed to Gil. 

_Please take care of her for me_ , is all it says. 

Gil reads it quietly. He puts his hand on the bars of the cage. He remembers the day he walked into that pet store and bought her for Malcolm, who immediately took to the little bird. He knows the only reason the omega would leave her behind was if he had no choice. 

The team scatters around to dust for fingerprints and search for any clues Malcolm may have left behind for them. 

“I never should have let him go back there,” Jessica says sharply, though her voice wavers just enough for him to notice. 

Gil wraps an arm around her shoulders. He knows she doesn’t mean it as a blanket statement. They were both horrified when Malcolm left Claremont with a fresh bond mark on his neck, both pleading for him to cut Martin out completely. “He was an adult. He chose to keep going, and there was nothing you could do to stop a kid that stubborn.”

Her lips narrow into a tight line. “But why now?”

The fact that it’s Christmas, that Martin is tearing their lives apart again on what should be one of the happiest days of the year, is left unsaid. 

“We found this in his cell,” Gil says as he pulls the plastic bag from his coat pocket. It contains a single square of newspaper. The edges are frayed just enough to indicate it was carefully folded over and over again until the fibers were weakened and then torn with a delicate hand. “Since it’s the most recent one, we figure it might have been the tipping point. Is there any reason you can see why this could have done it?”

She takes it quietly. The picture right in the center is of Malcolm at the barre demonstrating some footwork while his students watch on. He’s wearing form-fitting pants and a tank, his mating mark clear to see even in shades of gray. Up top, the headline simply reads _How Nicholas Endicott is Transforming the World of Ballet_. Her eyes shut as she tries to hold back tears of frustration, disgust. “Martin always did want a big family,” she says darkly. 

Gil holds her close. “We’ll do everything we can to find him.”

Jessica allows herself to lean into him. “You won’t,” she says, voice breaking. “They’re probably out of the state by now.”

Gil squeezes her tight, not saying a word. 

**Author's Note:**

> (Not pictured: Martin flipping the fuck out as soon as he saw Malcolm's picture on an article about Endicott)
> 
> If any of you guys are also reading my TUA fic, I'll be working on the next chapter of Two Men and a Baby very soon! Holidays just had to kick my ass first.


End file.
